


These scraps

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Series: Every part of you [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bittersweet, Demisexuality, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-X-Men: Days of Future Past, References to Depression, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: "Is it so impossible to believe that I've missed you?" Erik asks, with a toneless edge that's somehow undercut by emphasis. With severity. Erik pushes slightly, and he's not satisfied when he feels no curious press into his mind. Charles isn't reaching for him, and Erik can't explain why that rankles. He draws a slightly sharper breath, and the edge creeps back into his voice.[A heated meet-up before the events in Days of Future Past]
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Every part of you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684630
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	These scraps

**Author's Note:**

> ***** _Please read the first part in this series so things make sense!_
> 
> We're playing loosey-goosey with historical events here, but we thought it would be wonderful (and painful!) to explore a little meet-up before Erik's incarceration, but AFTER the school falls through.
> 
> Next story in this series will be two scenes from DoFP! Getting closer to our fix-it...
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format.
> 
> At times the flow can be jarring - we know - but please forgo any constructive criticism regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories and cut down on the introspection/words etc. Thanks! :)  
> ______  
> Erik written by ReallyMissCoffee, Charles written by merrythoughts

* * *

* * *

Like his dreams for Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Charles' life has crumbled. He doesn't want to depend on Hank's serum, but it'd steadily been getting more difficult to shield his mind from well, _everything._ Through trial and error, they've tinkered with the timing and amount for Charles' doses. Now, they have a schedule sorted out and as long as he doesn't miss his regular injection, his legs remain working and his once so-called gift remains dormant.

It's not peaceful, it's a respite. It's what he does to get by.

One would think that after decades of being able to hear the thoughts and feelings of everyone around him, that it would be eerily quiet to be cut off, but Charles _is_ already cut off. Raven is gone because Erik took her away. Raven, his oldest friend (once his _only_ friend she'd joked) now with the friend who abandoned him after deflecting the very bullet that paralyzed Charles. Erik called him a brother, but they'd been more than that - more than a friend _or_ brother.

But Charles doesn't let himself reminisce on that night - two minds connecting, Charles fully able to use his telepathy while their hands touched and learned each other. That night is a chapter from someone else's book.

Underneath the house, Cerebro is dusty and forgotten. Once an incredible invention to connect his mind to countless others, now it's a relic. Hank remains, perhaps under some misguided sense of loyalty, because Charles certainly isn't acting like a colleague, mentor or friend. Hank deserves better, but Charles is a husk of himself, dried up like he has nothing left to give, which is apparently why, when he gets a certain call, he doesn't hesitate to agree. What more could he lose?

Charles agrees to meet Erik in a hotel. It's been years since Cuba and surprisingly Erik hasn't gotten himself caught or into too much trouble (but Charles suspects that that could change at any minute).

Charles could shave, but he doesn't. He showers and that feels like all he can manage for this meetup. He brings along something he imagines that they may need and his body feels a jolt of anticipation that he wishes he could ignore.

Drinking helps, but he's not drinking this evening as he's had to drive. Charles parks but doesn't allow himself to tarry, if he does, he might not get out at all. Instead, he moves with a single-minded focus, as if Erik is drawing him in and he's helpless to the pull. The door is unlocked when he arrives outside of it and Charles lets himself in with a held breath.

* * *

There is an art and subtlety to approaching the world as it is now but Erik has taken to it like an eagle takes to the sky, or a shark takes to the taste of blood in the water. Mutants aren't so much known as they are suspected worldwide, but that doesn't mean that Erik hasn't been busy in the years since that day in Cuba.

He still remembers it like a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, the rush of rage and elation and fear and numb shock. Once, he'd been foolish enough to believe that they might all be fighting for the same thing. Once, he'd believed that Charles would _finally_ open his eyes, would reach for him the way that he'd reached for Erik that night so many years ago. Instead, the day had ended in a stale victory, Erik's rage giving way to bitterness and newfound purpose even if Charles hadn't been there to share it with. If he'd just opened his mind, if he'd just _thought_ for once about who he would be leaving behind--

But that had been then, and this is now, and Erik has left Charles' memory buried beneath the rubble of their former partnership. Erik has others now, other lost souls in need of guidance, others who have been abandoned by society and crushed under the weight of _humanity_ and its damnable condemnation.

Erik trains them. He builds them. He's there for them. He learns to enjoy Azazel's company, pushes pride at Raven in her off days, and even finds common ground with Janos and Angel. Emma is a calming, wary presence at his side, though he pushes her mind away when it reaches for him. Like her name, her presence in his thoughts is cold. It's unfamiliar, alien in its similarity, and she's not Charles.

Erik does his best to bury Charles' memory. He functions, and together, he and his brethren hit establishments and bolster their cause. Yet as the years pass, Erik finds it more and more difficult to forget the way he'd felt merely sitting across from Charles. He wakes from dreams of connection and camaraderie, and on the night that Emma reaches for him, her hand touching his chest, her eyes screaming of duty and reluctance, Erik's resolve snaps. He excuses himself and retreats to make a call.

The hotel is nothing special. No one will miss it if Erik needs to tear it to the ground, but he thinks the neutral territory is the only reason that Charles agrees to meet him the week after. Erik goes, leaving Raven in charge with no fanfare, an easy lie falling from his lips when she asks him where he's going. And when he arrives, Erik merely gives a cursory note of instruction and goes to the room he'd pre-booked in the corner room of the top floor.

He considers putting the helmet on, but that would partly defeat the purpose. When he'd left Charles on the beach, tensions had been high, but it's been years now. Erik hopes that maybe, just _maybe_ , Charles' eyes have been opened. He sits on the thought, and he waits.

But when the door opens, when Erik gets his first glimpse of Charles Xavier, something twists sharply in his stomach. Charles' hair is longer and lank. He's unshaven, with deep circles under his eyes. He's thinner than before, and there's something old and worn in his eyes when Erik stands up, torn between drinking in the sight of him and frowning.

"You look tired, old friend," Erik says neutrally. What else is there to say?

* * *

Charles Xavier is aware that this isn't going to be easy, but these days, nothing in his life is. Erik has always been difficult, but once, long ago, it _had_ been easier. Those moments were short-lived, once so bright in Charles' mind, they're now just dull blips. The good is harder to think on, so Charles doesn't let himself. He _can't_ let himself fall into the clutches of regret, of thinking in circles of how he could have prevented Erik from going off into the deep end or how he could have done things differently with Raven to keep them all together. It's an endless cycle that he can't break free of.

Their last moment together, the wretched helmet on Erik's head, Charles hadn't even needed to read Erik's mind to know that Erik was going to leave (to leave him and to leave with her). Whatever warmth had been between them, whatever fondness and friendship, it turned to stone. Their connection severed like an umbilical cord and Charles left bloody and crippled in its wake.

Killing Sebastian Shaw hadn't been enough for Erik. The humans had thrown accelerant onto the flame and Erik had risen to the occasion, looking to take a horrible and cruel stand, to start a war that Charles couldn't support or allow. Every day, Charles expects to hear that Erik and his followers have committed some sort of heinous act, but this fight isn't Charles'. Besides, Charles has already proven that he's incapable. He's failed.

Erik doesn't look much different, certainly not evil and diabolical. Charles doesn't know what to think. He's afraid of his own thoughts. He exhales shakily. A part of him aches fiercely for Erik while another is angry and frustrated that the urge to resort to violence makes itself known. The room is so quiet, Erik so _composed,_ and Charles is its awkward guest.

"Observant as ever," he retorts as he steps in and closes the door. "What are you hoping for tonight? Am I meeting with Erik or Magneto?"

* * *

It's unsettling, in a way, seeing Charles like this. For a long moment, Erik honestly doesn't know what to think.

He'd left Charles on that beach, rage and regret vying for dominance in his mind. Erik had left him bleeding, injured, the bullet crumpled on the sand. He'd spent the next three months checking the paper under the guise of searching for ways to push the Brotherhood forward, but each time, he'd defaulted to scanning the obituaries with a grim twist of numb uncertainty. Charles' name had never shown up, and after months, Erik had stopped looking. He'd survived Moira's bullet. Erik owed him nothing more.

Except _being_ here has challenged that view. Erik can't stand on the patterned carpet and look at Charles Xavier's long, mousy hair and sunken eyes and _not_ feel something twist sharply in his chest. It's not rage, it's not regret, but it _is_ a form of longing. Erik doesn't let memory hold him back; the cause is far greater than he is, and mutants everywhere need to push back, to fight for their rights to _exist_ , not to let the humans crush them under their thumbs.

Yet... Erik remembers that night. Remembers the way that Charles had connected with him, the way that Charles had clutched at him and praised every second and promised to help Erik learn _more_ about his powers. He remembers the feeling of trust and affection like it's a phantom limb, like it's something that he has lost rather than something he'd never needed or had.

There is a part of him that expects to feel Charles' mind rush into his own, to feel Charles' will enclose around him and force him down. Erik wonders absently if Charles would kill him, if he could bring himself to use his powers in that fashion. He wonders if Charles _wants_ him dead--

But instead of feeling the gripping fire of rage and anguish flood into his senses, Erik feels nothing. Charles doesn't reach for him. He stands there, healed but broken in different ways, and Erik feels a bitter swell of pity for this poor fool. He'd known that Charles would crash one day, known that his idealism would leave him broken, but seeing it still aches.

"If you feel more comfortable assuming that I can't be both at the same time, then Erik," he replies simply. He reaches out in his mind, feeling the metal of Charles' belt buckle, the buzzing of weapons in the room, but Charles doesn't seem to notice.

If he does, he doesn't care, and in a sense, that's worse. "The years have not been kind to you, have they? I'm hoping to change that. Surely by now you've _realized_. You're not like them."

* * *

How can Erik be so calm, so contained, when Charles feels like he's splintering apart? The dream of the school, the work and remodeling required, it allowed Charles a much needed distraction to focus on. It had been a bandage over a gaping wound, but Charles had thrown himself into the task. Fuelled by his aspirations, he may not have been able to save Raven or Erik, but he could help the others.

At times, the pain of his spinal cord injury was excruciating, but it was the inconvenience of not being able to walk that had truly been infuriating. Suddenly Charles was helpless, needing to beckon Hank to help him with menial tasks such as reaching something on a shelf. It had been crushing, but the dream of the school - the vision - it had helped Charles carry on.

Without that lifeboat, Charles was lost at sea. In the face of Erik's calm demeanor, it's beyond frustrating to be the one fraying at the seams.

The room is nice, but not ostentatious. The distance between them feels loud and punctuated somehow. Charles feels his pulse, strong and quicker than he'd like and not all due to anger, because Charles can still remember how it had felt to have Erik on top of him, Erik's hand over his mouth as Charles used his telepathy to share desires that Erik had been all too pleased to oblige...

It's been over a year since the school closed and two months completely without his powers, but the fact that he can walk in here and choose to walk out when he wants is liberating. It's really all Charles has left. He clings to it.

Hearing Erik's words is difficult enough. They _almost_ sound like they hold sympathy, but Charles knows better and he's glad that he can't glean anything more or deeper.

"If you're going to launch into a recruitment talk, you can save your breath, Erik," Charles snips back. Erik wouldn't want him _now_ anyway. This thought has Charles glancing over his shoulder at the door. This was likely a mistake...

* * *

No, the years have most definitely not been kind to this man. Erik drinks in his fill as Charles' expression crumples, and while it seems almost sacrilegious to do so, Erik learns the new expressions on Charles' face. He traces the sight of new lines, of deeper shadows, and he quietly notes the many differences. Charles looks older now, no longer youthful and hopeful, but worn and used like an old boot. When he dares to meet Erik's eyes, there's a flash of hot anger there. He lashes out verbally like a street dog, thin and malnourished, shaking at any attention or stray touch, and the sight is almost obscene.

 _This_ is not the Charles Xavier that Erik had known.

Yet it also is. While the transposition of this Charles onto Erik's memory of him is sorely lacking and uncomfortable, hearing Charles immediately dismiss his offer is almost reassuring. There's rage there, rage that speaks of loss and agony, and Erik can suspect that Raven is at least part of it. But she's not all, and as Erik watches Charles look back at the door, he can't help but notice that despite wearing no helmet, Charles' mind still hasn't reached for his own.

It feels... calculated, in a way.

With a quick flare of brief frustration, Erik reaches a hand out. Charles merely looks at the door and then the lock clicks shut. The metal handle immediately flattens to the door, metal spreading and trailing up, sealing over the cracks in it. Erik breathes out slowly, and with it, his frustration bleeds out as well.

"Always _so_ stubborn," he says, and it sounds resigned, but disappointed. He looks Charles over again and takes a single, pointed step closer, wingtip shoes parting the carpet so he can stand tall.

"Is it _that_ revolting, Charles? To see me? To listen to what I have to say? Once, we could talk about anything, views be damned."

* * *

_'We want the same thing.'_

Charles knows Erik likely still believes that, but Charles can't operate within Erik's framework. While Charles has been effectively hiding away from the world, his ideals remain the same. He abhors violence and revolution as a necessary means to support and protect mutant-kind. Humans, mutants, no one is exempt from behaving despicably.

At the display of Erik's power, Charles' eyebrows pull in and his lips purse. It's obvious enough that Erik doesn't want him to be leaving anytime soon. Given that Charles is essentially defenseless, it does cross his mind that he should possibly be worried, but no, Erik isn't going to hurt him. Given that Erik has opted to _not_ wear the helmet, it's apparent that Erik hadn't been expecting an altercation of that sort anyway.

Of course, Erik doesn't know that Charles has walked into this hotel room without his powers and Charles has no plan on having that change. Erik also doesn't know that the bullet wound had left Charles paralyzed. The truth is all Charles can hold over Erik and it's his truth to hold onto.

Charles turns back to Erik. He can deal with Erik longer if he must. Charles doesn't try hard to hide his glare and when Erik steps closer, his fingers twitching at his sides. Even now, he's tempted to take a swing at Erik. Or to reach out and pull Erik against him.

Charles doesn't.

"So you just wanted a little chit-chat?" Charles shoots back, an eyebrow arching up as he takes a step closer to Erik. "A little contention for old time's sake? Tired of your minions simply agreeing with you?"

* * *

Even now, two years later, it still amazes Erik in some distant, disconnected part of Erik's mind that Charles can dig so easily under his skin. By all accounts, it shouldn't be as effective now. Charles is clearly not the man that he'd been. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair is long enough that the old Charles would have made some attempt to comb it into some semblance of control.

 _This_ Charles looks just shy of manic, and yet despite the clear difference in his appearance and grooming, Erik still feels the spark of old fire light up in his veins when Charles glares at him.

He remembers the thrill he'd felt when Charles had pointed a gun at his head to humor him, remembers the adrenaline and amazement before Charles had awkwardly backed out of it, looking reluctant and a little disturbed. Looking at him now, Erik thinks the emotion in his chest is similar, a quick thrill, a rush of adrenaline, only edged with something else. Something aged. Anger, or pity.

In the depths of his mind, where he's learned to build shields from Emma's prying, Erik can admit that he's missed this. He's missed the careful quiet fire in Charles' eyes, has missed his secret smiles and soft voice. It hardly matters that the quiet fire has boiled to rage, and his smile seems to have been permanently tainted with the same acrid bitterness as his voice. It's still _a_ Charles Xavier. He's still enough.

"Is it so impossible to believe that I've missed you?" Erik asks, with a toneless edge that's somehow undercut by emphasis. With severity. Erik pushes slightly, and he's not satisfied when he feels no curious press into his mind. Charles isn't reaching for him, and Erik can't explain why that rankles. He draws a slightly sharper breath, and the edge creeps back into his voice.

"It never had to be like this. You could have come _with_ me; you still could. Surely you'd do better with me than you're managing _now."_

* * *

Not that Charles wants to admit it now, but he'd quite enjoyed the discourse with Erik. Discourse is healthy and debate helps flesh out one's ideas and can lead to strengthening arguments. He hadn't minded Erik clashing with him because it had still been respectful and they'd remained friends. And while Charles couldn't _agree_ with Erik, he understood where that severe stance came from. Charles had understood Erik, or at least he thought he had.

Hope and seeing and feeling the good within Erik... none of that mattered, not when missiles had floated in that bright sky and Erik had a wonderful chance to _do_ something that would have shown the leaders of the world that mutants were there to help and not hinder.

Charles is aware of how he looks - unkempt with the longer hair and facial hair - but who does he need to clean up for? Certainly not Hank and not Erik. He'd showered, changed into clean clothing, shown up. It's more than Erik's done for him in the last years. Snatching up Raven to go and do who knows what. Charles doesn't even want to know and he certainly doesn't want to let Erik step up to a pulpit and preach.

His jaw clenches when Erik implies that he's missed him. Charles continues to glare, not backing down or looking away, but it's when Erik continues and implies that Charles would do _better with_ Erik that what little composure he has left snaps.

"Oh, _now_ you want to care for me?" Charle asks, eyes wide and voice louder. "That's rich coming from the man who deflected a bullet into--" Charles stops, breathing harshly and he finds himself face to face with Erik, looking up, one hand angrily fisting at Erik's shirt. He may have stopped speaking, but he doesn't let go of Erik's shirt and he doesn't take a step back.

* * *

Just like that, the memory is there. It rushes in along Erik's senses like a wave until he swears that he can taste the salt grit in the air on that damn beach. He draws in a sharp breath and he can feel the hum of power under his hands, can feel each sleek metal body as he forces the missiles back at the humans along the coast. He feels the rush of rage inside, the cruel satisfaction that he'll never let another person _ever_ put him in the position that Shaw did.

The bullets from Moira's gun are nothing but gnats to flick away and Erik hardly focuses on it-- until one bullet stays too close, he hears an echoing thud, and a sound that will forever haunt his deepest nightmares. He can feel the missiles falling as his mind numbs, as he turns and sees _Charles_ falling, and for one brief, horrible moment, everything else goes still.

The memory hits him like a wave, rushing through him as Charles steps up to him in the present. Erik feels a hand fist in his shirt, feels the tremble of Charles' grip, and Erik's expression shutters, the impatient rush and push of his pseudo-desperation fading into something cold and numb and full of regret.

Erik has not regretted much in his life, insofar as he's been allowed to make his own choices. He's killed and reveled in it. _Everything_ had always been for his mission--

\--until Charles. Erik regrets that day on the beach more than he can say. Not the missiles, not Shaw, not creating a home for wayward mutants with nowhere else to go, a rallying cry. But he does regret not forcing Azazel to take Charles along that day. He regrets leaving him there. Even now, looking down at the _fury_ in Charles' eyes, Erik can only think about how wrong it is to see that look in Charles' eyes.

Numbly, Erik reaches out with his powers and searches Charles for anything else, any lingering bullet fragments, anything he'd left behind that day, but there isn't anything. There's just Charles' hand in his shirt, the anger there, and Erik's jaw clenches as he looks down at him.

"I wasn't the one who pulled the trigger, Charles" Erik says flatly. "I thought you had the best chance at care and recovery with Moira, not on the run. That doesn't mean I don't want you by my side."

He reaches up then, slow, and touches Charles' scruffy cheek, feeling warm skin, feeling the tremble in his body, and trying to quell the disappointment he feels that Charles _still_ doesn't _understand._

* * *

Erik may have expertly removed that metal bullet without doing _more_ harm, but at that point, the damage had already been done. An incomplete spinal cord injury at his L4-L5 with partial nerve damage leading to his legs not working - although Charles could still feel the occasional bouts of chronic pain. Being able to control his urination and get erect was a small consolation when compared to _not being able to walk._ The occasional leg spasm was akin to a slap in the face. Hank's serum thankfully fixes those nerves, allowing him the dignity and choice of movement (yes, at the cost of squashing his powers).

To this day, what still disgusts Charles was the fact he hadn't even been aware at first. He'd been so caught up in the pain and shock of the bullet and then the stress of the events and stopping Erik. The horror of what Erik had been aiming to do - the horror of himself freezing a fellow mutant and being complicit in the murder of Shaw - all of that gripped Charles like vines. Even now, Charles will wake up drenched in sweat, his fingers held to his forehead in his sleep, his nightmare of freezing Shaw while foolishly hoping Erik _wouldn't_ move the coin...

But Erik had moved that coin, had taken his revenge and that hadn't been enough. Charles stands here, far too close for comfort and knowing that _he'd_ been the one to take the final steps closing in and reaching out is a bitter pill to swallow.

Erik appears slightly shaken up by his outburst and there is a vicious swell of something present within Charles. The argument that Erik hadn't pulled the trigger is weak because, at that moment, it was only Erik who could control the bullets and missiles. _Magneto_ had made the decision to focus his attention on the missiles, on his mission to destroy the humans and take a stand; Erik hadn't cared about the collateral damage of waving off bullets as there were other mutants on that beach that could have been hit.

The idea of Charles just up and leaving with Erik is laughable and a sound does come out of Charles' mouth, but it's soft and broken. There's no place by Erik's side. Raven may be there, but Charles knows that he's not truly welcome, that his heart wouldn't be in it. Then Erik's hand comes to his face and there are no words that can describe how it both hurts and invigorates him to be touched by Erik again.

So Charles doesn't speak, he surges up and kisses Erik instead, hard and angry.

* * *

This is wrong. Not being here, not seeing Charles again, not existing within his orbit, but everything surrounding it. Life hasn't been kind to Charles, but nor has it been kind to Erik. He has a place now. He has a following. He has _good_ men and women willing to lay their lives down in this fight that Charles refuses to acknowledge even exists, but somehow the knowledge that he has support only makes him feel the absence of Charles' presence all the stronger.

Charles had been the first. A mind superimposed upon his own, saving his life, wrenching him free of the hatred and offering Erik his first taste of camaraderie and mutant solidarity. That means something to Erik. It means something to Raven, and though she refuses to acknowledge it in any real form, Angel shares their views.

Erik can connect to the others. He's taught Janos strength, and Raven to embrace herself and her abilities. He's engaged Azazel in conversation and allowed Emma her freedom, but none of them are _Charles_. None of them can connect the way that he can, not even Emma, and Erik often resents her for trying. So existing here, in this space, _with_ Charles, and _still_ being denied him is like a boiling bitterness deep in Erik's throat. He thinks _hard_ , but there's nothing in his mind but echoing silence, because Charles isn't listening. He's choosing not to, because he must know what that means. How he can so easily punish this way.

Erik hates that it's working.

Anger rises in his chest, harder, frustration and hurt mixing, and Erik is halfway through drawing a breath to call Charles out on his cowardice, to push him to _connect_ , to read the _truth_ from Erik's mind-- when suddenly there's a rush of movement, a tightening of Charles' hand in his turtleneck, and then Charles' lips are on his.

It is nothing like Erik remembers, and yet so familiar that it's almost unsettling. He remembers Charles' slow, sly kisses, careful and enticing and teasing, and the contrast is intense. Charles kisses him now like he's fighting, like there are fists swinging and powers shoving, like he _resents_ this closeness and will push back however he can. Erik feels the bitter twist in his stomach, feels his own frustration build, and makes his choice.

He kisses Charles back, _hard_. Erik lifts his other hand up, tangling it in Charles' hair. He bites chapped lips that had once been soft, and feels the scratch of Charles' beard against his cheeks. And in that moment, it's like returning to a haven of his past only to find it decimated.

* * *

A bitter part of Charles' mind suspected that Erik might involve sex as a way to smooth things over before extending an invitation to join him. It hadn't happened like that, however. Erik claimed to miss him and to want to conversate as they have before, but Charles isn't here to dig up the old debates, not when their last day together had been in Cuba, on that beach, where Erik made him a party to killing Shaw, and where Erik had almost lit the fuse on the world's biggest bomb.

Charles isn't here to evaluate Erik's claims - maybe Erik _does_ miss him - but Erik _had_ made that choice. Erik knew that Charles couldn't have allowed Erik to kill hundreds, if not thousands of innocent men.

Every day is a reminder of Erik's selfish decisions to tear them apart and to take Raven away. Charles may be able to walk with the help of Hank's serum, but he has a scar on his lower back that will remain with him. It's not overly large or unsightly, but it's a physical manifestation of a hurt that he can never escape from. The memories still remain - Charles' own phantoms.

If their mouths are kissing, Charles won't have to hear Erik's words, won't have to hear that edge of disappointment and frustration directed at him, so it's practical. Charles tells himself this. Charles, too, knows that this kiss is nothing like that night spent at the old Westchester mansion in Charles' room. That night isn't one he likes to revisit, far too painful to remember the tender reverence of touching and learning each other, of being able to be free with his telepathy and connect to Erik.

But now Charles couldn't do that even if he wanted to. Erik meets his kiss, equally fierce, one hand finding its way to grip at Charles' longer hair. Erik's teeth nip and Charles shivers at the flare of arousal that that simple action brings with it. Charles would like to blame his body's response on the fact that it's been awhile since he's been sexually active with anyone, but he's not delusional.

He knows it's Erik. Of course it's Erik. So, Charles presses in closer, forward in his intention that this isn't just an angry kiss, no, that he still _wants._ And he nips back at Erik's bottom lip, hoping to incite.

* * *

Erik can't pretend that this hadn't been part of the reason he'd called Charles, but it hadn't been the main one. It hasn't merely been a few weeks or a few months of waiting for the sting to abate between them, it's been years. Years of existing separately from one another when once they'd been closer than two men could hope to be. That's not a small length of time, and Erik had hoped that maybe Charles had come to see reason, that he _might_ be swayed. That he might _finally_ stand on the right side.

There are more humans like Shaw out there than not, humans who fear the very idea of them, humans who round them up like animals. Just because the mainstream public doesn't know for sure doesn't mean that humans don't _know_. Erik has seen the dregs of humanity, has experienced it, has suffered through it. Terrified animals had turned missiles on them on the beach and _still_ Charles had defended them, had claimed them innocent in one breath while damning Erik for returning their cruelty with another.

Charles Xavier. Always spouting off drivel about being _the better men_ when they _are_ the better men. Even now, destitute, bitter, and broken, Charles _still_ values those useless apes over _his own kind_.

So Erik kisses him and injects it with everything. He pushes his anger into it, bites hard at Charles' lip in stark contrast to the nip that Charles places on his own. Charles presses in close, mocking in his physicality when he's so ready to deny Erik anything more. It feels like a slap, relying on the physical when he can do so much _more_ , and as Erik reaches down and pulls Charles flush up against him, the drawers on the bedside table begin to rattle as Erik's anger pulses through the metal in the room.

It's only the way that Charles clutches at him, only the way that he presses forward enough for Erik to _feel_ that Charles wants him that stops Erik from giving real consideration to bringing the hotel down around them. Instead, he turns them and takes a pointed step towards the bed. He feels Charles' knees hit the back of it, and it's almost mocking in its familiarity. He remembers a time where Charles' knees had hit the edge of his own bed and he'd fallen with a breathless little laugh, open and welcoming and inviting. Almost as though chasing the memory, Erik follows him down, presses Charles down against this borrowed bed.

He kisses Charles deeply as Erik climbs up onto the bed, straddling Charles' hips. His hands find Charles' wrists and force them down against the mattress, and even without the soft fondness of familiarity in his mind, Erik can feel himself reacting. This may not be cerebral, but it _is_ Charles.

* * *

Charles doesn't have the strength to open up to Erik, to speak about any of his fiercely-guarded pain. He can't mention what Erik's bullet did to him. He can't talk about the fall of the school (and his dream). He can't rehash the old arguments and try to defend his integrationist stance. He can't explain how the voices rose up to tear him down, the thoughts and feelings of others turning into some frightening specter to fight off. The idea of fighting for mutant-kind's future with Erik is something Charles can't manage, not in the face of failure weighing him down like drenched layers of wet clothing.

The world, humans and mutants alike, will need guidance. Charles isn't an imbecile, but he'd been naive to think that _he'd_ somehow help. Professor X is no more, just Charles Xavier, alive but surely not thriving, but within Erik's bruising kiss, Charles' body wakes from its hazy slumber. Erik doesn't disappoint him, biting harder and Charles winces, but the pain is a reminder of a spark that he's long forgotten.

Distantly, Charles hears various objects and furniture rattle and he considers chastising Erik for potentially losing control of his powers (and not that Charles wants a noise complaint to be issued either), but it seems to calm down a moment later. Erik turns him and leads Charles against the bed and like he did years ago, Charles lets himself fall back. The bed isn't familiar, but comfort doesn't matter, not when Erik comes with him.

Charles lets his frustration and longing out into the kiss, his tongue tangling with Erik's and he only puts up the barest of struggles as Erik grips his wrists, just to feel that Erik _can_ overpower him. Erik believes that Charles could stop this, that he could take control if need be, but Erik is wrong. Like this, Charles is defenseless and only the false-belief of Charles still possessing his powers hangs between them, an unspoken thing.

Charles is shameless as he writhes and pushes against the line of Erik's hardening erection. He's gasping by the time the kiss ends and once more, futilely, he pushes back against Erik's hold. His lips are already swollen and he thinks he tastes blood.

"Fuck me?" Charles breathes out, and he doesn't know if he's asking or begging, but he knows he needs it.

* * *

It seems impossible to Erik that he'd only experienced this once, that someone can seem so familiar to him after only one night. He doesn't think there's an inch of Charles' body that he doesn't remember intimately; Erik knows that he could reconstruct it down to the last freckle in his mind if he so wished. _This_ Charles Xavier might be alien to him in surface appearance, might be thinner, his skin rougher and wan, but when Erik bites him to bleeding, he hears the first familiar sound escape Charles' lips. He hears Charles gasping, and it's such a small concession but it's _something_.

Erik clings to it like a lifeline as frustration boils in his core. He kisses Charles like it's the same punishment that Charles is attempting to dole out on him. He pins him down like there's any feasible way that Erik could overpower him were Charles to tap into his mind, and maybe he pushes so hard _because_ he wants to feel it. He wants to feel the weight of Charles' thoughts, wants them even if they're only there to shove him away.

But Charles doesn't connect their minds. He doesn't push. He takes and takes and takes, until even Erik is surprised by what Charles allows. He tastes blood, and when he draws back to breathe, he can see the red stark on Charles' lips. Charles still doesn't protest. He arches, he writhes, and there's something familiar about that, the desperation, though once it hadn't seemed so dire. Once, it had been a careful undulation, a request between equals, not... whatever this is.

Charles' request is like a stab of reality - like forked lightning through an otherwise darkened sky. Erik freezes, breathing hard, his slacks tented, but the arousal that he feels is surface. Even still, even _without_ his powers, Charles has this effect on him. Even Emma, with her powers, has never been able to draw such a reaction from him. He'd thrown her from his room the one time she'd tried.

"You'll allow me that, will you?" Erik asks sharply, and there are fangs in his voice. He tightens his grip on Charles' wrists until it has to be hurting him, but still he doesn't push back. Erik bites back the frustrated demand to have Charles reach for him. If he asks, if he points it out, he risks hearing _why_ , and he doesn't want to.

"At least on _this,_ we can compromise." Erik leans back then, releasing Charles' wrists. He's about to move, about to undo Charles' shirt, but as he shifts, his knee knocks against something hard at Charles' hip. His first thought is _gun_ , but there's no metal there. It's-- ah. Erik looks down at Charles. "Came prepared, did you?" He asks wryly.

* * *

There is no way of knowing if Erik has gone and done more with another man. Years ago, Charles glimpsed at Erik's past history with sex and - until _him -_ sex was a means to an end for Erik. Erik used his body as a tool, to seduce women, to create a false trust where he could then gain information. Erik had no overt interest in sex, and Charles doubts that's changed.

Charles has had sex with men only a handful of times, and right now, his own blood along his tongue and staining his lips, nothing sounds better than the intensity of getting fucked, of giving over to such base desires and feeling Erik in such a raw, untamed way. Charles doesn't care if he's being crass or too quick either. Erik had been the one to mutilate the lock and doorknob to prevent him from going. Charles is on a time limit here. He can't spend the night with Erik or he'll risk missing his dose and nothing sounds more horrifying than being in Erik's presence when his legs begin to go and his mind comes back.

Charles has no idea if Erik would be okay with such an activity - with fucking him. While Erik's prick may be hard, that only speaks of arousal and interest in what they've done so far. It's entirely possible that Erik would not want to dabble in this, but Charles isn't too worried about it because Erik's never been concerned with convention. Charles' blunt question seems to ruffle Erik's feathers, and for a moment Charles _feels_ paralyzed underneath Erik, caught, waiting, hoping--

The phrasing Erik chooses is deliberate and feels almost mocking. Charles _allowing_ Erik such a thing in contrast to it being some mutually held desire between them. Pain flares in Charles' wrists as Erik grips harder and Charles suspects that he will be quite bruised from this night. He refuses to wince or back down, and eventually Erik seems to come to some sort of conclusion as he finally lets go of Charles.

It's then Erik seems to notice what Charles has brought.

Cheeks already flushed, that flush only deepens from the question-slash-accusation that comes his way. Indignantly, Charles scowls in return. "So it would seem," is all that he can respond with. "You think you can manage it, or should I go look elsewhere?"

* * *

The tube of lubrication is a distinctive shape from where it's pressed up against Erik's leg. It's a statement, a punctuated silence in a deafening scream. It feels like the eye of the storm as much as it feels like an insult, and Erik can't quite follow his own logic as his emotions fluctuate. There's a numb disappointment, the knowledge that Charles had likely planned on deflecting him like this from the beginning, but it's mixed with an arousal that Erik hasn't experienced since the night before Cuba. On one hand, it's closeness, even if it is just physical, but on the other hand, it feels like a concession, like an allowance more than anything else.

Watching Charles' cheeks flush sends a streak of vindication through Erik's chest, but the brief flicker of embarrassment quickly melts into a scowl that Erik still doesn't know how to justify. It looks alien on Charles' face, _wrong_ , and he wants to claw it off as badly as he wants to re-learn the lines on Charles' forehead, the tightness of his lips.

They both know that Charles' threat to find someone else is empty. It's up to Erik whether or not Charles leaves at this point, unless Charles wants to force him, but Erik doubts he'll do that. That would require _touching_ Erik's mind, and clearly Charles doesn't intend to do that because he's petty enough to believe that Erik deserves punishment for adapting to the situation.

Erik lets out a slow breath, the sound slightly unsteady. It's the only sign that Charles has rattled him.

"I managed it just fine before," Erik replies pointedly, and reaches down. He fishes the tube from Charles' pocket with a blank expression, and then lifts himself up on his knees. With a thought, Charles' belt buckle shatters and undoes itself, and then reforms in the air. Charles' button and zipper pull down, but _this_ time, Erik lifts a hand and flicks his finger, and he pulls at the metal on Charles' trousers.

The fabric slides down Charles' legs without Erik needing to touch it. He sends Charles a pointed, firm look.

"Will you get your shirt, or should I?" He asks, remembering the phantom memory of teasing buttons and soft smiles. A slow, easy seduction, Charles' mind welcoming and open. It's worse to remember it.

* * *

The threat is empty like Charles' School for Gifted Youngsters. Its only real mutant is Hank McCoy, who finds solace in also containing his mutation. If Erik says no and turns him away, Charles will gather himself up, leave, and drive back to the house. He'll then likely try to drink away the utter shame and fury present within himself for going and wanting in the first place. While he certainly doesn't consider himself _hopeful_ anymore, he's _hoping_ that Erik will go along with this.

Sex isn't what he should be doing, it's not what Erik deserves. Charles wants to yell himself hoarse, to curse Erik out, to damn Magneto, but instead he gazes up and challenges Erik.

Erik looks down at him, undoubtedly aware that the decision rests on his shoulders. One shaky exhalation later and Erik concedes. While Charles could be petty and point out that technically they hadn't had penetrative sex before, he doesn't.

Erik is resolute and quick, gathering the lubricant and then helping himself to undressing Charles' bottom half by means of the metal in his belt buckle and then the button and zip of his trousers which then end up on the floor.

Charles doesn't need to be asked twice. He rolls his eyes and sits up and he yanks off the floral button-down shirt. He notices his hands trembling and clears his throat to try and stop. His socks are next and then the last piece remains, boxer shorts that are tented from his erection. Charles doesn't hesitate and he doesn't make eye contact as he strips himself free of them. He wipes some of his blood on the back of his hand and then looks up expectantly at Erik.

* * *

Were it anyone else, this would have meant something. Sitting back on his heels, fully dressed, while Charles strips under him _should_ mean more than it does, but they both know very well that there is very little vulnerability in nudity. To Erik, it has always been a means to an end. To Charles, it is something else entirely, a physical escape without needing to look deeply into what _really_ matters. This is Charles offering his body like it's some sort of consolation prize, like it's a slap to the face. Yet even as Erik watches him strip, his expression hardening in bitterness and frustration, he knows that he's going to do this.

Charles' mind is blank to him, yet Erik is faced with the uncomfortable realization that he feels more himself now than he has for the last few years. Not even Raven's sardonic comfort at his side, not even watching her bloom into such a beautiful, competent mutant gives him this feeling. Charles strips down and lets Erik see how thin he's grown, and it feels like condemnation even though Erik is not at fault.

"Seeing as this is _your_ request, what would you have me do?" Just asking feels like defeat. Once, years ago, Erik hadn't _had_ to ask. Not out loud. Charles had happily, gently instructed him with thoughts and pulses of emotion and guidance. By contrast, this feels almost alien and cold, yet Erik's slacks are still tight even if his heart sits heavy in his chest.

He waves his hand and his own belt undoes itself, sliding free in one smooth whiplike sound. He makes no move to remove his clothing just yet; it feels petty, but it's _something_ that he can remain in control of until Charles demands it of him.

* * *

Already his bottom lip stings from where Erik's bitten it to the point of bleeding, and the skin along his wrists is sore, but Charles pays it no mind. This physical discomfort is grounding and as it's not pain in his legs at least, Charles will take it. It's been some time since he's been pushed like this and honestly, he would rather their interactions be like _this_. Nothing with Erik should be sweet and tender. Ever since walking through the door, Charles feels like he's been brushing against sandpaper, he's raw and chafed, but he must be some twisted masochist because he remains.

He may be naked, may not be in the best form even, but Charles doesn't let himself become self-conscious over his nudity. In the dimmer lighting of the hotel room, the line of Erik's erection is still present. Erik wants something, and not even Charles knows if it's legitimately fucking or what, but he's not about to ask.

Charles, too, remembers how he'd delivered instruction and desires that fateful night years ago. It was thrilling to let his presence slide through Erik's mind, to revel in their shared pleasure, to project images of what he wanted Erik to do, to communicate so effortlessly. Charles is unable to do that now, and it's no real surprise that Erik, who likely hasn't had intercourse with a man, puts the instruction to him. While Erik may remove his belt, no real clothing is removed, and Charles wonders if Erik is expecting him to ask or tell him to undress.

But Erik undressing isn't actually a requirement, so Charles won't ask. "I'll need the lube back to prepare myself," Charles states as he gets to his knees and his hand reaches over expectantly.

* * *

There's something about the way that Charles gets up onto his knees and then reaches out to Erik that stings in a way he can't quite explain. Raven, he is sure, would understand to an extent, but this is one of the many secrets that Erik will keep from her for as long as he lives. This, she would never understand. Erik's not even sure he does. Yet as he kneels there and glances down at Charles' hand, Erik is suddenly struck with the desire to shove him down and swat his hands away.

It's petty, but he gives it serious consideration. Erik even tightens his hold on the lube for a moment, but in the end, this isn't something that he's willing to force. A part of him wonders if Charles would _make_ him, but Erik doubts it. If Charles hasn't reached for him yet, he's not going to. It's telling that the only thing he's reached for has been the _lube_.

Erik presses it into Charles' hand like he's trying to burn him with it, his gaze hard and his lips pressed together thinly. Behind them, unseen, almost uncaring, Erik unmelts the hotel doorknob. He remembers the exact specifications, and as Charles takes the lube from him and goes about settling himself, Erik focuses on every little piece he'd deconstructed earlier. The doorknob re-forms, but he does make a point to lock the door.

No matter how he'd seen this night going, Erik isn't foolish enough to believe that _this_ Charles Xavier has any desire to stay with him.

"Get on with it, then," Erik says flatly, like this doesn't mean what it does.

* * *

Now, in hindsight, Charles would have preferred he done this at home, or at least had started the task. There's no real dignified way to go about slicking up fingers to stretch one's body in order to be fucked. But it has to be done, and Charles would rather do it himself than have to suffer through giving verbal instructions for Erik. He can't imagine having to coach Erik through such a thing.

But Erik, for whatever reason, doesn't immediately acquiesce and hand over the tube. Charles' eyebrows draw in and he works very hard on not clenching his jaw or sighing in irritation. His palm remains outstretched and he simply waits. If Erik just so happens to want to be the one to do it, Erik is going to have to _ask_ because Charles isn't going to invite it.

Erik does concede and the tube is passed to him, pressed down into Charles' palm. Erik looks dark and displeased. It's an ugly expression, but Charles thinks it might actually match his own expression, if not, it matches his insides. Charles unscrews the lid as he debates the position to assume. Once again, he's reminded that there's no real dignified way to go about doing this, but fingers first then a cock. It's the way it must be.

As Charles turns around, he notices the doorknob re-forming itself, but Charles pays it no mind. The door is still locked, their time has not come to an end, and Charles settles on his stomach, grabbing a pillow to rest on before he squeezes some of the cold lubricant on his fingers, smearing it over them before reaching back. Like this, he's unable to see Erik, but Erik can see the entire length of him and Erik can watch as fingers slide between his ass and probe before pushing in.

Charles' hisses, wincing at the cold and awkwardness of the touch because it has been quite some time, but he doesn't relent. One finger works its way inside the confines of his body and he makes a bitten off groan as he begins thrusting it in and out with clear focus.

* * *

There's a moment where the two of them look at each other. Once, Erik would have been able to parse what Charles had been feeling, what he'd been thinking. Once, they would have been connected, would have been close, together. Now he sees nothing. Now, Charles is blank to him, closed off but determined, and it's almost painful, this distance.

Erik feels the anger and loss pulsing through him like its own heartbeat. He clenches his teeth as Charles takes the lube and looks away, and not for the first time, Erik considers leaving. Yet no sooner has the thought touched his mind than something inside of him aches and recoils. This may not be what he'd wanted, what he'd been reaching for, but this is what he _has_. If he can only manage this, does he not owe it to himself to take?

Before he can answer that question, Charles turns around and lays down on his stomach. Erik glances down, more to track the movement than anything, and he freezes almost immediately. Charles reaches back, uncaring, not focusing on Erik, and it feels like a slap, because if Charles had reached for him, he'd _know_ to wait. He'd know to keep his arm where it is, because despite Erik's anger, he feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs.

The scar on Charles' back is red and gnarled and wider, proving that the beach had not been the end of it. Charles must have had surgery sometime in the last few years, and Erik sits back on his heels, expression twisted in his relative secrecy, because he hadn't known. The media had covered nothing of the sort, and watching Charles reach back to finger himself open suddenly seems secondary.

The bitter bite of wrenching disgust that Erik feels for Moira rears its head again, sharp and furious, but all centered on that one scar. He doesn't even register reaching out. Erik looks at his own hand as though it's on autopilot, and when he brushes his fingers over the mass of scar tissue, Erik presses down, locking it away in his memory.

"Do you still see her?" Erik asks quietly. "Despite this?"

* * *

Charles tries to be practical and methodical about the stretching business. He knows what he's doing and how much he can take, so it does make sense that he does it. Charles is also keenly aware that it would likely feel far better if Erik were doing it instead. Truth be told, it's not really a difficult task. Charles could explain it or demonstrate it even. As long as Erik uses the lubricant and isn't overly rushed with adding fingers, it would be okay.

But Charles doesn't offer. Even without his powers he feels the resentment and disappointment radiating from Erik. It's a plume of smoke that doesn't dissipate despite time. Erik likely thinks himself so magnanimous for offering to take Charles away despite their bad parting. Just the thought of leaving with _Magneto_ to go and do God knows what causes Charles' to feel sick.

Erik is no savior. Charles doesn't need to be saved.

As he's lived with his scar for years now, Charles doesn't think anything of the position he's in. It also helps that he can't see it easily - not without the aid of a mirror. But it becomes apparent that the scar has grabbed Erik's attention, and Charles, focused on the goal at hand, doesn't notice Erik shifting.

The unexpected touch has Charles' entire body stiffening, the scar sensitive in some places but numb in others. Charles' hand is still, one finger still buried within him as he looks over his shoulder because the question is ridiculous.

"I don't blame her," Charles says pointedly. "And I _never_ have."

Which should then make it obvious as to _who_ Charles does blame. As if expecting a fight to spring forward over this - because why wouldn't it - Charles' hand pulls away from his backside and he's turning around. "Nevermind. This was a mistake."

He can't talk about his injury, about bullets and broken dreams.

* * *

The words don't come as a surprise, but even so, hearing them is like a slap across the face. No, a slap would have been simple, and likely deserved. The sharpness in Charles' voice is like claws digging and tearing into his skin, leaving thin gashes in their wake that sting for long after the irritant has vanished.

A rush of bitter frustration rises in Erik's chest then. Erik might have deflected bullets being shot at him - and hadn't Charles even shied away from that once, citing it too dangerous? - but he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. He hadn't even been the one to start that fight. _He_ hadn't armed the missiles, and yet Charles _still_ refuses to turn his attention to the precious apes he's trying to integrate with. He still doesn't blame Moira, because she's human. Because Charles is still dripping with misplaced idealism like it's the last bone between the paws of a starving dog, guarding it to the death.

Erik's lip curls and he's already opened his mouth, already drawn in a breath to _say_ as much. But before he can, Charles suddenly looks away, suddenly seems to grit his teeth and then his hand draws away. He starts to turn around, and Erik is struck with the sudden realization that Charles intends to _leave._

His hand shoots out without his say-so, sudden and quick and pressing hard to the flat of Charles' back, forcing him back down against the bed. Erik doesn't need to wonder about what his choice is; bitter as he is, if it comes down to pushing this argument, or making Charles stay, he's already made his choice.

"If you didn't want to prepare yourself, you shouldn't have asked for the bottle," Erik says, his voice sharp.

It's maddening to _need_ to bite his tongue, but he still reaches out and takes the lube from Charles' hand, like he no longer trusts Charles to keep his head on straight. And maybe, just maybe, there's a part of Erik's mind that expects Charles to shove him off, to stab into his mind in retaliation, but Charles doesn't force him back. Erik can't decide if he's disappointed or not.

"I'll do it. Assuming you still _want_ this." But Erik doesn't wait. He slicks his fingers the way he'd seen Charles do, and without preamble, he presses one of his fingers into Charles' body, feeling the heat and tightness like a vice. Physically, it feels good.

* * *

The idea of an argument bursting forth over who's to blame for the bullet meeting Charles is a distasteful one. Just dancing around their heated words a few minutes ago was enough for Charles and they'd both been restraining themselves. Charles can still read Erik well enough to know that Erik hadn't wanted to completely bare himself. Maybe Erik's mind would have been different, more inviting, but it's a non-issue as Charles is unable to take a glimpse.

Erik doesn't know that, however. Erik likely thinks he's simply being petty and stubborn about his refusal to indulge in his powers and that suits Charles fine. This truth, the truth of his legs and the serum and his failure, he'll hoard as a dragon hoards its treasures. Because Erik doesn't deserve the truth, and Charles doesn't know how he'd break it to Erik anyway. Charles is out of practice in dealing with others, let alone sharing sensitive personal subjects.

Moria had been doing what she could to try and stop Erik. Charles understands that. Charles couldn't stop Erik and Moria had stepped up, using the tools available to her to hinder Erik's manipulation of the missiles in the sky. That helmet, Erik's calm rage… Charles had been no match.

So Charles thinks slinking away will stave off the argument, but what it does is push Erik into action and Erik has him back on his stomach and against the bed. It seems Erik is choosing to let the argument slide in favor of pushing for what Charles had been initially pushing for and Charles... Charles doesn't know if he's relieved or not, but he doesn't fight when Erik snatches the lube from him.

He's breathing heavily, still upset that Erik brought up Moira and the incident at all, but he'd be lying if he claimed to _not_ be interested in having Erik push for this. Charles' legs twitch at the sudden press of Erik's finger inside and it _is_ better. Much better. Charles' closes his eyes and he makes a sound as he slowly gets onto his elbows and using his knees as slight leverage, arches his back to lift his ass up into the air in clear encouragement.

"Erik..." Charles breathes out and this time the tightness is from want. Because Charles may be angry and hurt and confused, but he still _wants_ Erik.

* * *

If this is what Charles will offer him, then this is what Erik will take. It still feels hollow, still leaves bitterness lingering around the back of his throat, but Erik doesn't fight it this time. His attention remains on the scar - on the damnable proof of the moment that everything had changed permanently - and he presses his finger into Charles' body.

At least in _this_ , Charles responds to him in ways that he can't hide. Maybe Charles can sequester his mind away, maybe he can taunt Erik with the cold reality in his own mind, but he can't pretend not to be affected. Erik feels the tight grip of wet heat around his finger, feels the involuntary clench of muscles, the _proof_ that Erik still has _some_ effect on Charles, even if it is just limited to this.

He watches Charles respond, watches as Charles props himself up and arches back, and Erik bites back the surge of desperation and frustration that rise like bile in his throat. He closes his eyes and focuses on the moment, on the tight grip of muscle, on the silken touch of Charles' body, on the faint shivers that Erik can feel running through him. Even his name, bitten out and tight, sends something satisfied through him. If he can't have Charles any other way, he'll take this.

Erik eases closer, still fully-clothed, still creating that distance between them as he presses his free palm flat against Charles' back. It doesn't stop Charles from tilting his hips up, doesn't stop him from rising onto his elbows, but it _does_ keep him pinned down. It does mean that Erik's firm touch is the driving force behind this as he presses his finger deep and draws it out to spread the lube around.

Perhaps he hasn't done this with men, but he's slept with women before. It's a different hole, a slower process, but it's similar enough. Erik knows when to slide his finger out and then back in. He knows when to add a second one, and he knows when to scissor them. It's almost methodical. Or it _would_ be if it wasn't for the fact that this is _Charles_.

"This is what you wanted, I take it?"

* * *

Now with Erik's finger pushing inside of him, Charles can admit that he's glad that he hadn't left. Which then brings up the question of, would Erik have even _let_ him? Would Erik have kept the lock firmly in place as Charles tried the handle after dressing himself? It doesn't bear thinking about, how Charles has essentially walked into a lion's den, powerless and peeved.

Charles is also glad that Erik had decided to let this powder keg of an argument fall to the wayside, to instead take up this task. But Erik is resigned to this, frustrated that Charles doesn't want to talk, but Charles _can't_. Can't let himself dredge up all of that painful history, can't argue and debate, not when his mind feels like it's standing on rickety mental legs. Sometimes Charles wonders if it had really been his legs that he'd wanted back or his mind to become quiet and filled with only _his voice_. His own regret, his torment, his lamentations, his anger, his failures - _his pain._

But Erik's touch and the reality of this situation has sensation dominating intellect, and when Erik's hand presses down on his back, Charles makes an approving sound. Charles can't really get any momentum to push back, but that's fine with him. Erik likely remembers that Charles can enjoy this type of dynamic and that hasn't changed. So Charles doesn't resist or fight and his body trembles as Erik works one then two fingers inside of him.

The question is ridiculous as it's more than obvious that this _is_ what Charles wants, but his pleasure makes him more agreeable.

"Yes, I want it," Charles grits out, his eyes tightly shut, fingers clenched into fists as he gradually loosens around Erik's fingers. "Want you."

* * *

_Want you._

Erik almost goes still at those damning words, because while a _part_ of Charles might want him, that's hardly the full story. A quick twist of bitterness curls through Erik's chest as he looks down at Charles, at his thinner, sharper angles, at the mess of his hair, at all the ways that he's allowed himself to fall apart. It's almost blasphemous as Erik looks down at Charles but he doesn't stop. He doesn't wrench his fingers free and tell Charles to leave because he doesn't _want_ to.

Charles may have conditions on how he wants Erik, but even now, Erik doubts that he could say the same. He almost wants to reach over and slap a hand over Charles' mouth, to keep him quiet lest he say something like that again. Because when it comes down to it, Charles might want Erik's _body_ , but he doesn't want _Erik_.

It's an important distinction to make. One that almost threatens to interfere with Erik's arousal. It's only sheer force of will and stubbornness that keeps Erik in the moment. If this is what Charles wants from him, this is what he'll get. If Charles won't touch his mind, Erik can lay claim to his body and make _sure_ that Charles will never be able to forget him.

"You always did like being manhandled," Erik observes, trying to temper his tone, to keep the bitterness from his voice. He pumps his fingers in rhythmically, focusing hard on the feeling, on the tightness, the manufactured wetness, the _heat_ of Charles' body. He does feel good. Physically, this is bordering on perfect. So when Erik feels as though Charles can take it - and maybe _slightly_ before that - he draws his hand back for more lube and then presses in with three fingers.

He watches Charles' hole pale under the pressure and glances up. Bitterly, he wants to see Charles struggle, wants to at least put them _closer_ to equal, even if just in this arbitrary, physical sense. Let Charles struggle the way Erik is.

* * *

It would be so much easier if Charles _only_ did want the physical from Erik. He could handle that. It's simple enough to come to terms with physical attraction and subsequent action in response to that attraction. If it was just Erik's body that Charles wanted, there would be no ache, no frustration and no regret. There would be no disappointment in himself for being unable to leave Erik Lehnsherr in the past (try as he might). Instead, everything feels hopelessly tangled for Charles.

The problem is that Charles wants so much more than just the physical or sexual with Erik. He wants things to go back the way they were - Raven with him, Erik instead of Magneto, back to simpler times and they could be happy and safe all together. He wants to not fear Erik's mind, to instead find a refuge there (not that Charles _can_ right now).

He's very much aware of how bad of a decision this is. Reckless. Ill-advised. Charles only has the _threat_ of his telepathy on his side and that would go out of the window if Erik pushed it or went for the helmet that he undoubtedly has tucked away somewhere nearby. But it's difficult to think of practicality when Erik's fingers fluidly thrust inside of him. The action is not kind, but it doesn't need to be as Erik is right: Charles _does_ like being manhandled.

He gets a handful of seconds of a respite as Erik goes for more lube, but then the stretch intensifies as another finger is added and Charles hisses, body shaking. Eyes tightly shut, his fingers desperately claw at the comforter, but he wishes he was touching Erik instead. But Charles doesn't ask - doesn't even know _how_ to ask. Before it would have been simple enough to project his desire to Erik, but that's not possible now.

Against what Charles wants, he moans out Erik's name.

* * *

It's pathetic, how instantly Erik's attention zeroes in on that low moan. It sends a shiver of desire up his spine, though it goes slowly, as though it has forgotten the path after so many years. Desire has always been second to Erik, has always been a throwaway thought, unimportant in the grand scheme of things, so finding that heat burning underneath his skin again is almost like a whisper of promise.

It won't last, of course. Charles had been the only one capable of drawing this out in him, and without the touch of Charles' mind against his, it's hardly the same sensation, but it's still scraps of the past. Erik bitterly thinks that he'll take it. He'll take it and twist it and lock it down deep, deep where only he can find it, not that there's any danger of Charles reaching for him.

So Erik throws himself into this. He throws himself into the rhythmic pumping of his fingers, into the tight sound that Charles makes as he prepares his body. It's different with a man, tighter, the sensation hotter and _more._ Charles' form is all jutting angles and the faint outline of ribs and no real curves, but Erik _wants_ , and he focuses on that as he works Charles open.

He doesn't do enough. There's no doubt about that in his mind. Charles' muscles are still pulsing and clenching occasionally around Erik's fingers when he draws them out, but there's a reckless, frustrated part of Erik's mind that almost hopes that Charles will stop him. Will show him how much longer to do it, will show him _anything_. Yet as he reaches for the lube and eases closer, there is no sharp alarm in his mind.

Erik undoes the front of his slacks without comment. He eases them down just enough to free his cock, red, angry with arousal, and thick, and then pours lube out into his hand. Charles is naked under him but Erik doesn't rush to return the favor. Instead, he simply wraps a hand around his cock and strokes, slicking himself up and then easing in closer, resting the head of his dick against Charles' hole. Perhaps in threat, perhaps in anticipation.

"I think you should do the honors," he says tonelessly. "Seeing as it's why you came. Come on, Charles. Show me."

 _Show me_. Once, a long time ago, that had meant something much different between them.

* * *

Charles' hands tremble with the desire to somehow reach back and touch Erik. It's increasingly _off_ to not be able to have this be more reciprocal in nature. During that shared perfect evening, there had existed an unmistakable mutual indulgence on both their parts. Taking away the mental connection between them, the physicality of that night had still been them _both_ touching and taking and giving. Charles may enjoy the so-called manhandling, but it's not enough.

But it must be.

Right now, Charles is at Erik's mercy, locked into this, ass up and on display, his body shaking from intensity and desire. Charles is aware of one glaring truth: Erik may have called and invited him, but _Charles_ is the one who drove and came. _Charles_ is the one who kissed Erik, who asked to be fucked... Maybe Erik is simply going along with this to accentuate how pathetic and needy Charles is.

There's no way to know. Charles can't use his mutation and Charles can't imagine asking.

Erik is quick and slightly forceful with his fingers, but Charles makes no indication that he wishes this to change or stop. Quicker is likely better or at least safer. They will get this done and then... And then what? Charles will leave and they will go their separate ways for what else could possibly happen? Charles isn't about to go galavanting off and join Erik and his criminals, and he very much doubts that Erik is going to leave his brotherhood.

The lines have been drawn and they are decisive. This is... This means nothing. And Charles focuses the best he can to remain as pliant as he can manage for Erik. Each thrust of fingers inside his body isn't particularly pleasurable, but his own nakedness, the situation of being at Erik's mercy - wanton and willing - it arouses Charles, his prick still mostly hard.

Then fingers withdraw and Charles breathes roughly, blinking his eyes open and trying - futilely - to adjust to the lack of pressure and fullness. It's disconcerting in a way, but perhaps it shouldn't be. Before Charles can think to look over his shoulder, he hears and feels Erik move and shift on the bed. Charles remains as still as he can manage, panting and strung out, still riddled with uncertainty but knowing full well that he won't retreat from this. He hears a zipper drawn down, hears Erik pull his cock out and then applies lubrication.

But Erik doesn't just mount him and push his way in. No, Erik crowds closer and the wet, hot head of Erik's prick simply rests against his hole. Charles shivers at Erik's words, the calloused tone cool and unwelcome and at odds for the intimate act they're about to do. On principle, Charles wants to protest that _he_ is the one to push back and breach himself on Erik's cock, but he swallows his protests down.

"You'll have to hold it steady," Charles reluctantly instructs, referring to Erik's cock. Charles doesn't wait for any indication that Erik has heard or complied. He simply pushes back, breathing deeply as his hole stretches and with a hiss of discomfort, the head of Erik's cock slowly pushes inside.

* * *

It's as though someone has removed the color from a once-vibrant canvas. Erik can't think of how else to explain this moment. It has the appearance - the structure - of something that had once given him great joy and connection, but _now_ it feels hollow and empty. It is physical, but it's not cerebral. It's not emotional. The connection that had once been there has been cast aside.

Erik had never been one to crave sex. The impulse had not attracted him the way it does most, but that night, with Charles touching him, his mind open and searching, the connection vast and endless, Erik had understood. Yet because he'd had that, because he's _seen_ the alternative, he knows that this is simply physical, and is almost bland by comparison. It still arouses him; he still _wants_ , but he wants so much more than Charles is willing to give him. So he takes these scraps. He takes the physical, takes Charles' position and physical closeness, takes his surrender, and he tries to use it to color in the picture as best as he can.

When Charles seems to come to some sort of understanding, he tells Erik to brace his cock, and Erik does. Despite the hollow moment, it is still monumental in that Charles has chosen to be here, to allow Erik to _have_ this. Perhaps it is a taunt, a jeer over what he can no _longer_ have, but Erik takes it anyway. And when Charles begins to push back, when he feels the sudden increase of heat and closeness and pleasure, Erik's eyes slide shut and he lets out a rougher, tighter breath of shocked pleasure.

 _This_ is not something that they had done that night. While this closeness doesn't make up for what has been lost, it _is_ something different, something more. Erik feels Charles' body tense, feels it begin to resist him, and there's one moment of tight, near-pleasure that makes him wonder if this is possible. Then, suddenly, Charles' body gives. His muscles relax and Erik feels a heat and tightness unlike anything he's felt before.

His eyes close tightly and he reaches down with his free hand to grip at Charles' hip. Erik groans low in his throat, shuddering with the effort, and he takes a moment to bask in the tight, slick heat. He doesn't drive himself in, doesn't push. Instead, teeth gritted, he gently begins to ease himself deeper. Much as he would _like_ to do this quickly, to ensure that Charles can't possibly ignore him more, he won't hurt him. Not like this.

* * *

Charles used to enjoy sex. Casual encounters were easy to facilitate given his mutation, but it's been a long while since those lighter days. Flights of fancy and fun have never had a strong hold on him, but Charles still let himself indulge.

 _This_ doesn't feel like an indulgence. Charles may be aroused, but it's a gnarled, twisted thing - _they're_ a complicated and hopelessly tangled thing. Charles has fantasized about this sort of act occurring between them and now that it is transpiring, he's left both disappointed and longing for more. Or perhaps for what could have been.

Hope and naivety no longer exist within Charles. This isn't some starburst of a beautiful connection where their minds blend like milk into tea. Behind him, Erik is a fathomless darkness but Charles is still helpless to its draw. There is no light found here. There is no warmth. It's a searing intensity, but Charles' body does give way and he hisses as Erik penetrates him.

Like this, on his knees, spread out and taking Erik's cock, he's left floundering. Charles can't imagine what Erik is thinking and he has no means to discover it. He barely feels the hand on his hip as he sinks forward, head coming to rest on the bed. His ass remains up, his fingers curled into fists. He wants Erik to be closer, to be laid atop him like a blanket, but he doesn't let himself ask. He takes what Erik is willing to give.

* * *

It's not enough, but it has to be. As much as Erik regrets what Charles has barred from him, this _is_ the choice that he'd made. That Charles isn't standing by his side in solidarity every day, that he's not a quick mind and a sharp comfort to lean against is still like bitter bile in the back of Erik's throat, but if this is all that he'll ever get, he'll take it. If this is the only time that Charles comes to him, then Erik will take as much of this as he can.

It's not enough, but it is something. It's still connection, even if it is limited to the physical. Erik closes his eyes as he tightens his grip on Charles' hand, almost bruising as he struggles to remain as still as Charles supposedly needs. Though, as Erik slowly sinks into Charles' body, he wonders if this carefulness is for Charles, or if it's simply to draw _this_ moment out.

Nothing lasts forever. As much as Erik tries to be gentle, to not push something that must hurt - even if Charles hasn't given him any indication - when he finally bottoms out, he grits his teeth and breathes out slow between them. There's pleasure and anger, heat and longing, and tightness and need. Erik holds still when he's fully seated, but not even he can set the pleasure aside. He moves his hand from Charles' hip to the bed beside him, bracing himself. It does have the benefit of the faintest brush of his chest to Charles' back, but it's still not enough. But when Erik draws his hips back and thrusts back in, testing, it's more than he's had this time around.

"Is this all right?" Erik asks, because despite his anger, despite his bitterness, and despite the ache low in his chest, he doesn't want to _hurt_ Charles. If this is all he gets, it'll be something to remember.

* * *

It does hurt, but physical pain is much easier to bear. It's a complicated hurt, however. Not outright pain, more along the lines of a pressing discomfort that's impossible to ignore. More stretching wouldn't have gone amiss, but it hardly matters now. This is what Charles wants, there is still an undercurrent of persistent arousal. It's a strained connection, a physicality forged between them, and Charles is desperate for it.

He takes short, even breaths, focusing on not clenching and fighting this intrusion. Steadily, Erik's cock edges its way inside and Charles' eyes are tightly squeezed shut as he's filled. It's a staggering intensity and despite this connection, there's also a lingering hollowness inside his chest, his mind filled entirely with too many of his own thoughts.

_'Is this all right?'_

The question is practical.

The question is also ridiculous.

The question has Charles choking out a sound that's trying to be derisive laughter but instead morphs into a sob. Before he can think better of it, before he judges himself too harshly, Charles' hand is scrambling to reach for Erik's arm and he pulls on it, yanking Erik down on his back as Charles collapses to rest on the bed. He buries his face against Erik's forearm, almost clinging, but Erik's weight on top of him is better. They're closer and it's what he needs.

"Be like this," Charles mumbles out, referring to the position. To encourage Erik, Charles pushes his hips back and clenches around Erik's cock.

* * *

The question is supposed to be practical, as right now, Erik feels like that is all he has left. Practicality, preciseness, and his own perception, his own mind. He can't reach out, can't force Charles to wrap his mind around Erik's. He can't manipulate Charles with his own power, not because he's not _able_ to, but because he won't do it. If Charles plans on withholding himself, so too does Erik, and that petty power play is alive and well between them even as the physicality of the moment rushes to new heights.

Charles' laugh makes Erik still, because it sounds like a bitter, wild, _ugly_ thing. Before Erik can withdraw, before he can take back his concern, however, Charles suddenly moves underneath him. Erik has a moment to tense, and then he feels blunt nails scratch at his hands. At first he thinks it's an attempt to fight back, to gear up into pushing him off. As always, Erik foresees an attack, and he's already bracing for that when Charles manages to grab his wrist and suddenly everything changes.

Because Charles isn't pushing him _away_. Charles isn't attempting to escape. Charles is pulling him _closer_ , as when Erik's arm gives out and he falls forward, Charles grabs onto his arm and holds on like it's the only port in a storm.

Blindsided, Erik's mind stalls. He feels the expanse of Charles' back against his chest, feels the tight grip on his arm, the tickle of Charles' hair against his forearm, and then Charles grits out his answer and pushes back, and the pleasure becomes something more. Erik shudders with a startled, bitten-off sound of surprise as Charles' muscles clench around him.

He allows himself to fall forwards the rest of the way, allows himself to drape along Charles' back. The closeness might not be the same, but Erik feels it down to his core. Maybe Charles means this as a further taunt, maybe he doesn't, but Erik swallows back the quiet, pleading need in the back of his mind and focuses on the present.

If this is what he gets, he won't waste it.

Erik braces himself along Charles' back, using Charles' body to support him. He leaves his arm where it is, because no matter how bitter and betrayed he might feel, it's been a long time since Charles has reached out to him. Erik is a proud man, but not in this regard. And as he draws his hips back and then thrusts back in - even if he notices that the glide is smoother and the angle is better this way - it's the feeling of Charles' body flush against his that gives Erik what he wants.

He curls his free hand around Charles' middle, his palm splayed against Charles' chest, and he holds him tight as he begins to set up a rhythm.

* * *

Erik may expect an attack when he moves, but it's the furthest thing from Charles' mind. If his reaction _had_ been to somehow fight or to physically lash out, it'd be easier to stomach... But the very idea of this activity stopping, of him clambering off the bed, hastily pulling on his clothing, and then fleeing is a far worse scenario. Charles knows that he couldn't stand Erik's judgment. Besides, the only thing more shameful than this occurring at all is a _failed_ encounter.

At least like this, Charles is shielded from any possible scrutiny and calculation held within Erik's eyes. It's just Erik, Erik's body draped over him and pushing Charles down into the mattress. It's much better. The sound Erik makes has Charles' stomach twisting in pleasure. Charles continues to grip onto Erik's forearm, forehead pressed close. It's reminiscent of clinging, but in this present moment, Charles lets it slide.

Thankfully Erik doesn't question this change nor does he wait for some great sign before continuing. It's a dual feeling of relief and pleasure when Erik draws back and then slides in. Erik's other arm secures him by wrapping around his middle and Charles is left panting. Compressed and closer, the new angle is exactly why Charles used to indulge in this very proclivity. As Erik's cock pushes in, Charles is treated to a pang of pleasure that lights up within him.

Charles lets himself moan freely, his eyes still tightly shut, unshed tears of intensity wetting his eyelashes. Each pointed thrust has Charles' own arousal rubbing against the bedsheets, giving him a more familiar pleasure to deal with. As best as he can, he rocks back into Erik's thrusts, wanton and more than willing now.

"Like this, yes," Charles affirms in a tight, breathy voice. He figures he should at least clue Erik in that the current position and angle are doing it for him.

* * *

Like this, it's easier to focus on the sensation than the denial. There's a part of Erik - petty and bitter - that wants to turn his nose up at this closeness even now, but he doesn't. Maybe this isn't the same intensity of connection; maybe Charles is just as petty as he is, but it's something. It's visceral and physical and _normal_ , but it's more than Erik should expect, given the circumstances.

He throws everything that he has into the feeling of Charles' gripping heat around him. He focuses hard on the sudden sounds that Charles starts to make - pleasured and desperate and needy - and it should be enough. In a way, it is. It feels good; the physical pleasure is there. Erik pretends that he can soak in Charles' thoughts by simply pressing close enough, by simply feeling his skin even though he knows better.

The verbal confirmation - the soft gasp and dazed answer - sends another little flicker of longing through Erik's chest, but he takes the scraps he's given. He braces his hand against Charles' chest, feels the racing of his heartbeat. He reads Charles even if Charles won't reach out to him. Erik tracks how quick Charles is breathing, how rapidly his heart is beating, how each thrust at a certain angle seems to make his heart race and his chest vibrate with each moan.

It's visceral and Erik locks it all away as he picks up the pace, thrusting a little quicker, a little harder. He has the angle now, and the sounds that Charles keeps making are an almost melancholic music to his ears. Sweet and sad and beautiful in their own right. He groans tightly in the back of his throat, the only real sound that escapes him minus his own quicker breathing, and he chases Charles' heat and tightness and sounds like they're all he's going to get.

* * *

Charles already knows that he's going to be left sore and haggard after this. Perhaps some of his skin will also bear bruising from Erik's roughness, but Charles isn't concerned. In time, bruises heal and soreness fades, but the memory of this weakness? The recollection of his own desperation and longing? The knowledge that he drove here with this intention within him? Such instances won't be easy to allow himself nor forget.

But all of that will plague Charles later, when he inevitably returns back to the manor, to empty rooms and ghost hallways and doses himself again. Charles will beat himself up about it - about all of it - and he might bite his bottom lip bloody, he might throw a bottle or a glass against a wall in frustration, but nothing will change.

Decisions were made, lines drawn on that beach in Cuba, and Charles can't see how there's any way to go back. There's no remedy to their ailment and no do-overs. Erik chose his path and it's obvious enough that he won't deviate from it.

It's only Charles' thoughts that haunt his mind, specters of _what_ _if's_ and regrets. The serum cuts him off from the world, from those around him. Charles is glad that nothing can bleed into his mind now. He doesn't want to hear Erik's thoughts let alone touch Erik's mind. Never again.

So he takes in every point of contact between them, the intensity, the pleasure, the discomfort - _everything_ \- and it feels like it's imprinted into his very skin. Perhaps Charles had once thought that going this far would scratch the itch, but now that he's in the midst of this almost primal-thing, he knows that it won't be the case. Erik's left more than one scar on him.

He gives in, lets himself groan and grasp onto Erik. He's fucked quicker, harder, and heat sears through Charles as he's pushed closer to the edge.

When he comes, it's Erik's name that he sobs out, and for a short moment, things are simple between them. Things are quiet.

* * *

Erik isn't a fan of intentional ignorance, but in this, he doesn't have a choice. Thinking too hard on what Charles is denying him is liable to make him soften, and as bitter as he is, Erik can delude himself enough to get through this. If this is the only memory he makes - if this is the only experience he has - he'll take it. He cuts himself off from what he's not getting in this moment and instead focuses on Charles. On his body, thin and underfed as it is. He doesn't let himself worry over the paleness of Charles' skin, or the clear marks of abuse left behind. He doesn't focus on the scar that Charles hadn't wanted him to touch.

Instead, Erik focuses on heat, tightness, pleasure, and sound. He focuses on the hot press of skin, on the feeling of Charles' hand clutching his arm close, on the feeling of Charles' scratchy facial hair rubbing his forearm raw as he all but clings to it. Erik focuses on Charles' breathing, his pulse, the frantic little movements and twitches Charles lets out when Erik picks up the pace.

It's not enough, but it _is_ sex. It _is_ closeness and familiarity. Erik throws himself into it, fucking into Charles and chasing each burst of sound, each clench around him. He breathes hot against Charles' nape, sweat slicking their skin, and when Erik feels himself beginning to get close, he speeds up again. It's mechanical, in a way, disconnected, but that changes _just_ enough to break through some of his walls when Charles' gasps grow quicker.

Erik has a few seconds to enjoy them and then suddenly Charles tenses under him and his muscles clench and spasm. Charles comes with a near-sob of his name, sounding desperate and choked, and that - _that_ \- is like connection.

Erik grits Charles' name out under his breath, his grip tightening as he snaps his hips forward, chasing his own release. He fucks hard into Charles' body, holds him close, but despite how badly Erik wants this, the edge doesn't come until he remembers before. One stray thought escapes him - the memory of kissing Charles, of feeling Charles' mind deep in his own-- and Erik shudders and groans his failure out against Charles' neck as his hips stutter and he comes. For that one blissful second, Erik lets himself forget.

He forgets about their paths, about the betrayal, about where they stand. For this moment - this one final stolen moment - he lets the world outside fade away. Erik lets it just be them.


End file.
